


Wait and see

by mazily



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-24
Updated: 2009-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Everyone will want to dress like me, wait and see, I'm gonna be a supermodel."</em><br/>(Jill Sobule, Supermodel)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait and see

**1\. Young.**

Claire's hand slips. Her mother's favorite lipstick cracks, and a line of red slashes across Claire's cheek. She throws the tube at the mirror--it bounces off, just makes a soft pinging noise before clacking into the sink--and frowns. She looks like a clown. Or a mime.

The tub of cold cream is almost empty. She uses the last of it to wipe the lipstick away. Turns on the tap, splashes water on her face. She'll just have to go with the ingenue look today, fresh-faced with a spot of gloss. Perfect for playing Juliet or Dorothy Gale. Maybe she'll use that new clip to pull her hair off her face. Just a few tendrils brushing her cheeks.

She runs to her bedroom. She needs a change of wardrobe.

*

Madame tells her to, "sing from your diaphragm, Claire." She presses her hand against Claire's stomach, says, "Press against my hand until you're completely out of air." Claire does, belting out the last note of the song.

*

Her mother makes her breakfast in bed: a banana, oatmeal, orange juice. Sits down next to her. Plays with her too short hair--boys and gum, and Timmy Johnson totally deserved it when Claire kicked him where it hurts--and says, "Don't worry, sweetie, it's going to be okay."

Her mother is a big liar. Claire takes a bite of oatmeal. It tastes like warm cardboard. "I was going to be _Juliet_ ," she says.

"Well, if you hadn't," her mother says.

"That's not the--"

"Look," her mother says, completely ignoring her very valid point, "Your hair will grow out. And you'll spend your summer with your uncle at New Burbage; he wanted this to be a surprise, but I think this is as good a time as any. You're going to play one of the fairies in their _Midsummer_. Isn't that much better than a role in a little school play?"

Claire shrieks. Drops her banana, half-peeled, into her oatmeal.

 

 

 

**2\. Hip.**

Playing your own (possibly evil, probably gay) cousin has it's difficulties, of course, but it also comes with its rewards. Claire tells the Soap Opera Digest reporter that she's thrilled with the opportunity to stretch, artistically speaking. "I'm just so excited," she says, "this is like a dream come true. Like playing Viola and Sebastian."

The stupid cow just blinks. Says, "Of course," and, "Speaking of Shakespeare, a little bird tells us you were once cast opposite Jack Crew in _Hamlet_. What was it like working with him?"

Claire's an actress: she smiles instead of stabbing the bitch's eyes out. "Oh," she says, "Jack was great, of course, a real professional. I was really disappointed when I had to back out of that production. I'd kill to work with him again. Luckily I get to work with some even more amazing actors now."

"Ah."

Claire crosses her legs. Before the reporter--Claire can't remember her name, but she's sure it's something dull, like Kate--can ask another stupid question, she starts talking. "Oh, and did I mention that we're working my singing into the newest plot? Alison's going to go undercover as a nightclub singer! I might even get to do a few dance numbers; nothing too flashy, of course, but I'm totally excited."

*

Her agent sends her to a call for some experimental theatre outside LA; it's apparently all the rage with the glitterati, and Claire does miss doing stage work. "I love TV," she explains to the casting--guy? girl? she can't really tell. "But my heart is on the stage."

"Fine," the director says. He's sitting in the corner, draped in shadows and scarves. Very dramatic. Claire approves; it works for him in a way it would never work for her. She's sunshine and bright colors, far too beautiful to hide in shades of grey. "Start. Make it filthy. Go."

"Darren?" Claire asks. "Darren Nichols? We worked together at New Burbage a few years back."

"New Burbage is dead to me," the director says. He practically hisses. He tosses a scarf across the room, and it lands near Claire's left foot. "Deal with that."

Claire coughs. "Romeo," she says, "Oh Romeo. Wherefore art thou-"

"Tie the scarf around your eyes. Stand on one foot," Darren says, "And hop." Claire complies. Her agent said that Soderbergh was at their last performance, that Scorsese found his latest leading lady here. She will hop, skip, jump, or kill for a role in this play.

She hops. Says, "Romeo," and lands. Her ankle rolls under her; she falls on her ass, but she keeps talking. She even sings, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

When she's finished, Darren claps. Once, twice, three times. "Bravo," he says. "Bravo."

 

 

**3\. So beautiful.**

"I didn't really want to do theatre out in the valley anyway," Claire says. Her own face in the mirror looks back dubiously at her. One perfectly manicured eyebrow arched. "I need to concentrate on my television career."

By the time she's finished applying her lipgloss, she almost believes herself. She's that good.

*

She turns off the ignition and flips down the sun visor. The mirror on the back's a little streaky--she makes a mental note to pick up some Windex on her way home--but not so bad that she can't check her teeth for lipstick.

She looks good: light makeup, a perfectly casual outfit, cute sandals that show off her pedicure. Just another actress on an Amoeba run. She grabs her bag and pulls out her iPhone; she'll check her voicemail as she walks into the store.

See and be seen, that's what her agent always says. Everything's a performance.

"Life is but a stage," she says. Laughs. Shakes her head and steps out of the car. Locks it behind her. She's looking around, just trying to scope out the crowd, when she almost trips over a pebble. It's Kate. It's Kate fucking Crew (or whatever she's calling herself these days). Claire smiles her "my boyfriend just came back from the dead" smile and waves.

Kate looks surprised. And possibly high. She waves back, and they each take a few steps toward the other. "Claire?" Kate says, "Wow, I. _Wow_." They hug.

"Wow," Claire says, "Kate. Small world, huh?"

"The smallest," Kate says. They look at each other. Smiling. Kate's wearing torn jeans and some weird band t-shirt; her hair's up under a baseball cap. Very celebrity on the run from the paparazzi, which really only works if you're actually Angelina Jolie. Kate just looks sloppy. Claire prays for a phone call, even if it's her agent saying she lost out on a job.

"You look great," Claire says.

"You too. Love the sandals," Kate says.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Bordy 48-hour challenge.


End file.
